


Not Against the Rules

by destinationtoast



Series: Againstverse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ACD Canon References, Angst, Awkwardness, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Post Reichenbach, V-Shaped Relationship, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-16 02:46:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinationtoast/pseuds/destinationtoast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes back from tracking down Moriarty's network to find that everything is different with John.  For one thing, John is involved with Mary.  However, that doesn't turn out to have quite the implications that Sherlock expected, for him and John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Prompt Fill: First Kiss/Expertise](https://archiveofourown.org/works/739139) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



> This was written pre-S3, when all I knew about Mary was the casting.

Sherlock is trying to understand the new rules, with John.

They’ve finished their third case together -- their first big case -- since Sherlock returned from being in hiding. They’re in 221B, and they’re giddy with the excitement of having solved it, and having done several life-threatening and wholly foolhardy things in the process. Everything should be just like it always has been.

Except it’s not. John won’t be staying in 221B. He’ll be returning to his new home, the flat he inhabits with Mary. Sherlock would like him to stay here, as he used to. But that’s not how it works, anymore. Sherlock would also like John to get dinner with him later, now that they’ve solved something major and satisfying. Sherlock would like John to watch crap telly with him afterward. Sherlock would like John to make him tea, and to help him screen requests from people who want him to take on their cases. Sherlock would like John to send texts for him, when he can’t be arsed to get his phone.

Sherlock is not sure which of these things are acceptable, given the way things are now.

They’ve rebuilt a level of trust between them, but it’s a bit fragile. And there are more rules. The new rules include that John gets to yell at him more, and Sherlock shouldn’t yell back (Sherlock made up that one, after realizing how much it improved John’s mood to yell at Sherlock, lengthily, upon his return). Sherlock must report to John frequently on his whereabouts, and must always ask for help from John, even if he doesn’t think he needs it, or thinks it would put John in danger (John made those up). 

There are other rules for making John happy -- most of them unstated -- that Sherlock is still learning. It’s important that Sherlock succeed. Because if John gets unhappy, he will leave 221B. Sometimes he does leave, anyway. He goes home. And Sherlock doesn’t see him for a long time. Hours, often, or sometimes days. Sherlock would rather avoid that, when possible.

Sherlock will figure out all the new rules. For now, he’s trying to be cautious.

“Would you like tea?” He offers, as John collapses on the sofa.

“What, really? Yeah, all right.”

Sherlock goes into the kitchen, and returns a few minutes later, with tea. John takes his cup with a smile. “Ta.”

Sherlock sits on the other end of the couch, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping an arm around them. He sets his tea aside; he only got some to be polite. Sherlock thinks he should talk about something. Something that John would like to talk about. “So, John. Tell me about how things are. With Mary.”

“Um.” John looks at him questioningly. “Yeah, they’re all right. Rather good, actually.” His expression indicates a mixture of surprise and approval (much like when he opened the fridge earlier to find his favorite brand of beer and no body parts). Sherlock’s discussion of John’s girlfriends used to be limited to making accurate but unkind observations about them, sometimes to John, and sometimes directly to them. Especially when they took up too much of John’s time. He knows he can’t afford to do that with Mary, though. Can’t risk losing John.

“Settling down, being in a serious and exclusive relationship. It suits you.” Sherlock wants to enumerate all the ways he can read John’s happiness -- the weight gain, the well-rested appearance, the lack of limp, the creases in his face which have increased in depth in a pattern that indicates a great deal of smiling in the past year -- but doesn’t know which comments on his appearance John would appreciate. Sherlock gladly lists them to himself, however. He knows that John grieved deeply for him, for a long time. (John has made that very clear; it was the source of a large amount of yelling.) But then he found Mary, and she helped John be happy once more. Sherlock is grateful to her for that. Should be completely happy. 

But the new rules are different, and Sherlock isn’t completely happy.

John laughs briefly, in the time Sherlock has these thoughts. “It does suit me, yeah. Mary is great. But we’re not, exactly. Some of that.”

Sherlock frowns. They’re not serious? He knows John has bought her a ring. That certainly signifies seriousness, to John. They’re not exclusive? He has seen no evidence that either of them are having sex with any other partners. But could John be worried about that? Why would he be so happy, if he were?

“John, Mary has been faithful to you,” he says, just in case. “I would have alerted you if that were not true.”

John laughs, looks down at his tea. “Yeah, I know,” he says slowly. Carefully. He’s thinking about his words, but Sherlock can’t predict them. Maddening. “We’re fine -- I’m not worried. But I wouldn’t say we’re exclusive. Exactly. Not in theory, anyway.”

Sherlock must be misunderstanding. John can be so imprecise, even inaccurate, in his wording. “You’re monogamous... in practice only?” He draws his words out carefully, giving John ample opportunity to correct him.

John looks up at him and laughs. “This is odd. I never expected to be talking about this with you. You wouldn’t have... before.” Answer the question, John. “But yeah, that’s about the size of it. We’ve talked about being not. Exclusive. Don’t know if anything will come of it.” 

Sherlock gives the slightest shiver (John won’t have noticed), then forces himself to be still. He thinks about it some more. “Because Mary is interested in women.”

John chuckles again, but doesn’t sound surprised, this time. “Is that a question, or a deduction?”

“I’ve seen her exhibit evidence of an attraction to females. And statistically, most non-monogamous relationships that are openly acknowledged as such by partners who are still happily engaging in sexual congress with one another --” (John winces a little and doesn’t ask if that’s a deduction) “-- are due to the woman having an interest in other women. This tends to be the least threatening situation for the man; in fact, some men find it arousing, regardless of whether they participate in activities with both women.”

John blinks a couple times. Sherlock wonders if he has again made remarks in a fashion that is non-standard. He’s never bothered to learn the rules for discussing sex and relationships. He wonders if he will need to learn, for John. “Um. Yeah. Well. That’s part of it. She does like women. And not just... sex, either. Relationships. She’d like that, maybe. If it comes up, if she finds someone that she wants that with... Well. We’ll talk about it more.”

“That’s part of it,” Sherlock echoes. Though he knows a great deal about the statistical outcomes of relationships, and the actions people take when motivated by strong emotions including love and jealousy, he is operating outside his realm of expertise. “Continue, John. Please.” (He tries to sound like he’s being polite by asking for more information; tries not to let on how much he doesn’t know.)

John scrubs a hand through his hair. “Well...” he hesitates. Then he stops. Aggravating.

“You would allow her to be involved with other men, as well,” Sherlock theorizes, trying not to sound like he’s guessing.

John’s mouth twists just a little. “Yeah, if it comes up.”

“That possibility makes you more jealous,” Sherlock observes. 

“Of course,” John says, as if it’s obvious. “But, yeah, I mean. I hope she doesn’t, to be honest. But... well. She told me she doesn’t fall for people because of what’s between their legs. She doesn’t seem to categorize that way. Kind of refreshing, really. Wish I could be more like that.” He gives a small sigh. “I’m not, though. I do categorize. But... mostly I want her to be happy. Whatever that ends up looking like.”

Sherlock digests this. He’s uncertain how to respond; as John’s friend, he should perhaps offer an opinion. Be supportive? Offer wishes that Mary not sleep with any other people, or any other men? Sherlock does not know whether openly non-exclusive relationships are statistically more likely to last longer or be happier than monogamous ones. He should find out. 

He wonders if John has similar permission, from Mary. That would be equitable. Sherlock isn’t sure if that is something that would be important to John, though -- perhaps he only cares about making Mary happy. John is good at making others happy.

“And I hardly have room to complain, as far as jealousy goes,” John says, looking down and fiddling unnecessarily with his teacup.

“Mmm?” Sherlock cannot imagine John making someone jealous. John flirts extensively, but only when not in a relationship.

“Well. Mary puts up with an awful lot from me.” Perhaps John does flirt, then, when Sherlock can’t see. Sherlock is still guessing. This is irritating.

“You’ve had no other sexual partners, since Mary.” He remains quite sure of this.

John smiles at his tea. “No. But she has to share me.” 

“You mean, she’s open to sharing you, as well?”

Silence, for a long moment. John looks up at him, finally, and swallows. “No, I mean she does share me. Now.”

Sherlock’s eyes dart back and forth. Finally: “Oh.”

John laughs, a bit uncomfortably, but keeps looking at him. “We joke about it, she and I, actually. We call it my other relationship. What I have with you. She knows it isn’t... well. But she also knows what it... what you mean to me. And she knew, after you came back, that she would have to share. We were already talking about all this before, because of Mary. But once you came back... well, yeah.”

Sherlock has no idea how to respond to this. He focuses on the concrete details. “So, the arrangement is that she can have sex with other people, and you get to spend time with me?”

John shrugs. “Essentially.”

Sherlock’s mouth turns up in a small half-smile. “That hardly seems fair.”

John smiles a little, too. “Well. You’re my best friend. It’s important to me to spend time with you. And you’re much more demanding than most friends -- it is more like a relationship.”

Sherlock acknowledges this with a nod. “But we’re not lovers.”

“Um. Well, no.” John laughs in the way he does when he’s uncomfortable, but trying to make light of it with a joke. “It’s not like you’re offering...”

Sherlock is quiet for a long moment. He must be careful, so careful, not to break the rules. But he doesn’t know what they are, anymore. Finally, he says, “Isn’t it?”

John’s eyes go wide. He rapidly inhales. “I. Oh. Sherlock. Are you...? I’m not...”

“You’re not gay.” Sherlock says, collapsing in on himself just a little. It is probably the right time to make it seem that he was also joking. He starts selecting from possible responses.

“That’s not what I was going to say,” John tells him quietly, watching him. “I mean, I’m not, usually. But maybe. I think maybe I would. That I could want that with you. I don’t know.”

Sherlock stares at him. The words that usually rattle through his brain -- even when he doesn’t say them -- are suddenly silent. 

“I thought about it, after you were gone, and before I met Mary,” John continues. “Thought that I’d never had another relationship like this. In my whole life. Woman, man, didn’t matter. I wished I’d told you. Wished I’d said a lot of things -- things I still haven’t completely told you.” He takes a deep breath. “And I wished, once or twice. That I’d kissed you.

“I don’t know what that means. I don’t know what I want. But it, it would be all right. Mary knows. But I didn’t think you wanted.” He looks at Sherlock questioningly.

Sherlock feels a bit lost, stunned. But he does want. Has been aware of wanting since at least the moment when he said goodbye from the rooftop. He wants so much, but doesn’t know how to say it. He nods.

“Oh.” John smiles, biting his lower lip just a little. They stare at each other for a long moment. Then John laughs. “I guess now might be when we’re supposed to kiss.” Sherlock nods again, feeling strangely unable to move otherwise.

John still doesn’t move either, though, except to run his tongue along his lips. They stare at one another some more. Surely he knows that Sherlock isn't likely to initiate this. It's not his area, as John is well aware. It is rather excessively John's area. So why isn't he doing anything? 

Presumably he doesn't just sit there normally, waiting for his girlfriends to come to him. He’s hardly a passive person. What's different now? Is it because of the pain Sherlock caused John, still -- is John going to make him wait, in retribution? No; John is not wearing the expression he used to wear when refusing to hand over his laptop because Sherlock had ignored some of John's requests.

Instead, John is looking at him a bit like he looked at his plate the first time they went out for Ethiopian food -- cautiously, pausing a long moment before hesitantly approaching it. (Sherlock hopes John will take to kissing him as well as he took to Ethiopian food.) 

Why is John still waiting? Is it because they already have an established pattern of interaction which does not involve sex, and John is worried how changes to that pattern might affect their other interactions? Is it just because Sherlock is a man? Stupid, John. Irrelevant. For purposes of kissing, anyway.

Finally -- finally! -- John draws and releases a deep breath, and says, “Right.” He shifts across the couch, leaning forward slowly toward Sherlock. He’s watching closely, as if to see if Sherlock is going to stop him. (Didn’t he nod, before? How much confirmation does John need?) Sherlock just waits, letting John come to him.

And then the distance is gone. John is kneeling before him, gently pushing Sherlock’s knees -- still pulled up to his chest -- apart, just enough to allow John to get closer. He reaches out and takes Sherlock’s face in his hands. Sherlock is aware of every bit of his stubble that is intersecting with John’s hands; the feeling is a bit overwhelming. Then John’s face is in front of his, and then their lips are touching, and then Sherlock is trying to learn everything about John’s mouth, using only his own lips and his tongue. It proves to be a fun challenge -- more engaging even than he would have expected.

Finally, they break apart. Sherlock gauges the degree of elevation in John’s heart rate and the dilation of his pupils, looks down at John’s partial erection.

“Um. Yeah, I liked that,” John confirms, blushing a bit.

“I know,” Sherlock says. 

John laughs. “You did, too?” Sherlock nods. Obviously. He is exhibiting the same signs, only more so. “Mmm,” John says, just looking at him, and smiling. Sherlock tries to figure out what he should be saying, at a time like this.

“I’m glad it’s not against the rules,” Sherlock says, finally.

“Yeah, me too.” John grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to wiggleofjudas for the inspiration and the beta read. <3
> 
> As I told Jude, after I read First Kiss, I thought, "Yes, that's exactly how it would go, because these two would never actually have a discussion about relationships, even if they started trying to have some kind of complicated open relationship where they should absolutely be talking about it." So, then, of course, I immediately had to figure out how they would actually end up in such a discussion.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sherlock, testing reproducibility, tries licking again._
> 
> Sherlock takes a scientific approach. To everything.

Kissing John isn’t a bit boring, Sherlock decides. 

He looks up at John leaning over him as John caresses and explores his lips, his cheeks, his brow. Sherlock feels limp and light and boneless beneath John’s touch, and he melts into the corner of the sofa in a daze of experiencing. Periodically, John touches some new patch of skin, and Sherlock stiffens, his knees tightening against John’s sides.

John’s hands grip him everywhere -- well, not everywhere. Moving up, they grasp his neck, his face, his hair. Down, they clench his waist, his hips. Always, they pull Sherlock closer against John. But now, John leans back a bit. Sherlock makes a sound of discontent as John just watches him for a moment -- his eyes tracing Sherlock's skin are not nearly as satisfying as his eyes and hands and tongue and lips together. Then John's hands are between them, and he's unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt, starting at the top. 

This is more promising. 

John undoes only the first two buttons (not counting the uppermost ones, already unfastened) before leaning back in. His left hand winds back through Sherlock's hair, while his mouth traces Sherlock's neck, exploring its hollows. 

Why mouths feel so pleasing against the skin when operating in non-functionally relevant ways is an evolutionary mystery.

John's mouth leaves his neck, and Sherlock wants to protest, but then he moves further down, mapping out Sherlock's collarbones, and Sherlock is quelled. As Sherlock watches from beneath suddenly-heavy eyelids, he focuses on the edge of John’s ear. So close. Sherlock reaches out his tongue and experimentally runs it along John’s helix.

John rewards him with a sharp intake of breath and a startled _ohh_. John wears his responses writ large upon his face and body and voice… gathering empirical evidence about optimal actions will not be difficult for Sherlock. Despite the relative lack of mystery, the thought is enticing.

Sherlock, testing reproducibility, tries licking again. He maintains previous variables including location, pressure, velocity, and duration. This time, he gets no inhalation, just a comfortable, encouraging _hmm_. Not a very well-controlled experiment, then. Sherlock will need to collect a large number of samples and calculate variance --

John shifts a bit, and his hip brushes against Sherlock's cock -- not the word Sherlock would normally use, but he’s fairly certain it’s the one John would use, and thinking that, he suddenly is aware that he would very much like to hear John say that word to him -- causing Sherlock, in a rather alarming turn of events, to entirely lose track of his train of thought. Sherlock opens his mouth to express irritation at his mental derailing -- then groans instead and forgets his complaint as John moves against him again, this time more deliberately. 

John moves, turns, until his own cock is against Sherlock's. John pauses a moment to reach inside his jeans and adjust himself within the confines of the tight fabric, and Sherlock feels a desperate stab of envy for his hand. But as John withdraws his hand, placing his arms against the sofa to either side of Sherlock’s shoulders, his erection is now lined up perfectly against Sherlock’s, and John leans forward and begins to move back and forth and oh oh ohh.

After a period of time which Sherlock forgets to keep track of, John pulls back. “Sorry,” he says, laughter and breathlessness entwined in his voice. Sherlock isn’t sure why he should be apologizing. Or stopping. “It’s a bit like being a teenager again.”

Seeing Sherlock’s continuing stare, John says with a wry grin, “Maybe not for you. But I have a number of memories of getting off with girls, without either of us ever getting out of our clothes.”

Ah. The wearing of the clothes is the significant variable. Sherlock holds contradictory opinions on the topic. He viciously hates John’s clothes and his own for separating their skin -- wants to feel all of John against him, everywhere simultaneously -- but he also is overwhelmed at the idea of the probable increase in sensation. Feeling John moving against him, even with so many layers between -- _cotton denim wool cotton_ \-- is terrifying in the way it has almost caused Sherlock to completely lose control of his mind and body. Sherlock is afraid to do the same without impediment and wants it more than anything.

"We can fix that, though," John says with a grin. He reaches for Sherlock’s trousers, and his surgeon's hands make steady, quick work of his buttons and fly. Sherlock is far more aware of his internal organs than usual -- his heart speeding, his lungs at a complete standstill -- as John reaches into his unfastened trousers and -- 

John's phone rings.

John swears, and his hand abandons its tantalizing proximity to Sherlock in order to grab the phone off the coffee table. John glances down at the screen, swears again, and shoots Sherlock an apologetic look as he sits back on his heels and answers.

"Hey," he says. His voice is full of a familiarity and warmth Sherlock has heard him use with only two people -- one of whom is not currently present.

"Oh, shit, dinner. I did forget," he says a moment later. "I’m sorry." Sherlock feels cold dread replace the warmth that has been twining its way through his gut.

He pauses. "Yeah, I know. It, um. It slipped my mind." This is it. John is going to leave now. John is going to stop this and leave. Mary is summoning him back to her and John will leave and it’s not fair because Sherlock hasn’t even broken any rules and -- 

"Oh, no actually." John continues. "We wrapped it up a bit ago." John's right hand, absently caressing Sherlock's thigh through his trousers, soothes his rampant thoughts a little. Sherlock continues, though, to grip the sofa cushions in tight fists. “Been home -- I mean, Baker Street” -- Sherlock grinds his teeth -- “for a bit.” 

Another pause. John blushes, then swallows. "Well. Um. Not quite in the middle… um, yet." John says, his blush deepening. Sherlock’s breath catches at the probability, given John’s physical symptoms, that John is discussing their current activities--and the fact that John doesn't think they've reached the middle. He relaxes fractionally.

The frequency of Mary's pitch rises dramatically, and Sherlock thinks he can just make out the words, “...God, John, really?” at the end of her remark. (The first bit sounded more like a squeal than full-fledged syllables.) 

“Really,” John affirms, with a smile for Sherlock.

Sherlock notes that John's erection (as well as his own) is flagging. Sherlock wonders if it's appropriate for him to provide remedial friction while John is still on the phone. 

“Thanks,” John says, still smiling. Then his eyes go wide as Sherlock places his hand against John’s cock. Sherlock slowly starts to stroke John through his jeans. 

“Sorry, what?” John asks, half-swallowing his question. His eyes are locked on Sherlock’s, but he’s giving no sign that he wants him to stop his slow, firm strokes. John’s right hand, not holding the phone, clenches around the back of the sofa.

Sherlock maintains eye contact as he continues his efforts, and also experiments with running his tongue slowly along his lips. He is rewarded with feeling John’s shaft strain against his jeans and hearing John’s breathing go very ragged (interestingly, his own cock has stiffened just as much without any applied friction). 

John sits still and says nothing for a while, then offers a vague, “Um?” A long moment later, “Uh. Yeah. Definitely.” He’s still watching Sherlock intently, and his tongue darts out in a quick mirroring of Sherlock’s.

John’s hips start to move a bit, and now he’s thrusting up against Sherlock’s hand just as much as Sherlock is controlling the movements. Then he pauses, brow furrowing. “I... don’t know,” he says, a little breathless. “Mmm. Good idea.” He uses his right hand to still Sherlock’s hand, and gives it a gentle squeeze. Sherlock sighs, but waits. 

John blushes even more spectacularly than before as he listens. Sherlock watches, interested; he had no idea John was capable of such a deep and widespread hue. Sherlock wonders how far it extends past his collar; he wonders, too, if John flushes similarly while climaxing. He wonders a number of things that would be more easily answered if John weren’t on the phone.

Sherlock strains to hear what Mary is saying, and thinks maybe he can just make out the word, “boyfriend”. Sherlock waits for John’s denial. Instead, John says, “Go away, you’re horrible,” his voice full of affection. “I love you.” Likely, Sherlock misheard, then.

“I will,” John says, still holding onto Sherlock’s hand. “Thanks, sweet thing.” Sherlock finds the pet name mildly appalling. And feels a pang of resentment that he doesn’t have one. Mostly, he’s just glad that John is hanging up and refocusing his attention where it belongs.

John releases Sherlock’s hand to put the phone back on the coffee table. He returns his gaze to Sherlock, smiling. But he’s sitting back, a bit, now, and he isn’t touching Sherlock any longer. “Sorry,” he says. “I forgot to call before dinner, like I was supposed to.” 

“Obviously,” Sherlock agrees. Trust John to explain the only self-evident portion of the conversation.

John laughs. “She’s, um. Happy for us.”

“Good.” It is good -- less impediment to all the things Sherlock wants -- but Sherlock doesn’t really want to talk about Mary right now. Sherlock considers reinitiating physical activities, but John stopped him. He’s still trying to gauge what he can do without causing John to leave, and he’s (frustratingly) uncertain of John’s reasons for halting the -- the handjob, his mind fills in, and once again he imagines John saying the term. (He shivers.) Reluctantly, he leaves it to John to make the next move.

Instead, John chews his lower lip thoughtfully and studies him. “So, um. Have you ever...? Before?”

It seems they are not going to escape talking. “No.”

“Have you ever wanted...?” Sherlock can hear John’s ellipses dangling off the middles of his sentences.

“Once.”

“When?”

“University.”

“Oh.” John sounds interested. Sherlock is not interested; he knows the story already. “Why didn’t you?”

“He wasn’t interested in men.”

“Ah. You have a type, then.” John grins at him, and Sherlock unwillingly finds the corners of his mouth lifting. They laugh, and it’s good, and laughter has been too rare, since Sherlock’s return. But Sherlock’s erection is lessening once more. Sherlock regrets that the moment has apparently passed, but he tries to shift into conversational mode, as John prefers.

“Well, then. We were in the middle of something, weren’t we?” John blushes again slightly and raises his eyebrows invitingly. “But perhaps we should. Um. Move to the bedroom.” 

“Yes, fine.” Sherlock, for once, is pleased to have been incorrect. And will acquiesce to whatever course of action might lead to John finishing that reach that he started earlier. 

John takes his hand and pulls him up off the couch. As Sherlock follows him to the bedroom, clutching his unfastened trousers, he spares just a moment to wish he could go back and talk to his university-age self. Take him aside, with his bruised cheek and the greater bruise of rejection. Reassure him. _You’ll be alone a long time. But not forever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started as a oneshot, but I decided to write more. I have another chapter written beyond this, and the outline in place for a total of 6. Thanks to those who asked for more of this story.
> 
> Thanks also so much to [wiggleofjudas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wiggleofjudas/pseuds/wiggleofjudas) and [AxeMeAboutAxinomancy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy/pseuds/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy) for the feedback on this. And Jude, you were right -- the application of remedial friction was definitely the way to go. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Right. Bed.” He turns back toward the door, takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and steps across the threshold._

They make it to the bedroom, eventually.

First there is a stop in the hall, just before the doorway. John pauses, and Sherlock worries that John is having second thoughts. But John turns to him, takes his face in his hands, and snogs him with a fierceness that allays the fear. 

“God. You.” John says, finally, pulling away and looking up at him. Sherlock notes the swollenness of John’s lips; feels the same in his own. He notes John’s fluttering pulse, his breathing; he wonders if John would let him test the conductance of his skin, and suspects that it would be substantially increased from normal --

“Christ, you’re tall.” John makes an observation of his own. “Right. Bed.” He turns back toward the door, takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and steps across the threshold.

Sherlock enters and perches on the edge of his bed uncertainly. He mimics John (who is still standing -- would John prefer that he still be standing?), removing his shoes, unbuttoning his cuffs. 

“Here, let me.” John, leaving one of his cuffs still fastened, sits next to him on the bed and unbuttons Sherlock’s shirt, picking up where he left off earlier. He gives an appreciative sigh as he pushes Sherlock’s shirt off his shoulders. Sherlock isn’t sure why; John has seen his naked torso before, of course. At the palace, not to mention various times that Sherlock couldn’t be arsed to put on a shirt around the flat. It’s John’s chest that’s still a partial mystery -- John’s scar, particularly -- and Sherlock wants to explore it. But John is tugging at him, shifting him on the bed until his back is against the pillows at the headboard. And now John is tugging down his trousers and his pants -- and his socks -- and Sherlock lets him. 

Sherlock, now stretched out naked on the bed, watches John sit for a moment and just look at him. John still seems hesitant, but his arousal is also evident. Sherlock’s cock, hard against his belly, twitches beneath John’s gaze. Finally, John touches Sherlock’s leg, hesitantly. He runs his left hand up along calf-knee-thigh, and oh, the pressure of fingertips and nails on bare flesh is pleasurable, but also infuriatingly teasing. His hand notably gives wide berth to Sherlock’s erection, instead continuing up his belly-chest-shoulders as John shifts on the bed to stretch out beside him. John props himself up on his right elbow, bringing his face close to Sherlock’s. He stares into Sherlock’s eyes intently as he traces lines along his chest. John appears to be closely observing Sherlock’s responses, which Sherlock finds both endearing and arousing to a rather alarming degree -- he can’t remember another time when he has felt such intense and overpowering need. Or possibly the arousing is just due to John more generally (Sherlock briefly tries to think how to deconfound the variables, but finds that his brain is not functioning very well).

Sherlock draws a sharp hiss of a breath as John tentatively brushes one of his nipples. He is going to climax without ever experiencing the sensation of John’s hands upon his genitals, if this continues. “John,” he grits out.

John yanks his hand back as if the nipple has turned out to be on fire. “Sorry! Not good?”

“No, good. Everything is good. I just need...” Sherlock stares down at his cock pointedly.

John’s eyebrows quirk upward, and he grins. “Ah. Right. I just … I thought if this is your first time, maybe we should take it slow.”

Sherlock frowns and shakes his head decisively.

“Right.” 

John looks down and reaches for Sherlock’s cock. As his fingers gently encircle the shaft, Sherlock’s fists clench around duvet, back arches, mouth opens to let forth a low moan-grunt. (His toes echo his fists, curling spasmodically and uncontrollably.) His own responses come as a surprise to him. Disorienting. It’s never been like this when he’s quickly rid himself of unwanted erections. Never even close.

John moves slowly. Gentle but firm, he works Sherlock’s foreskin up over his head and then back down the shaft, still watching him intently. 

John is breathing heavily, raggedly; is that just from watching Sherlock? Sherlock can’t focus on the inquiry, or anything except the feel of John -- _holding-grasping-moving-subtlest of twisting motions-slight increases and decreases of pressure_ \-- who watches, and now bites his lower lip. _Concentration-and slight worry-?-why-what-why would John worry?_ Sherlock’s thoughts: stuttering, nearly standstill. Concentrate. Try. Think. John. What is he thinking? _Tension in gut-can’t-curling and twisting from inside_ \-- No. Shake head. Furrow brow.

“Sherlock,” John breathes. “You okay?” Quick nod. “Are you trying to think?” Nod. John smiles. “Don’t think right now. If you can. Let go for just a minute.”

John’s smile reassures him. He closes his eyes and concentrates just on the experience of John’s hand -- _warm-firm-faster-yes-YES_ \-- and he is spasming, spilling onto his own belly, vision going white. He might make a noise, but isn’t sure. 

A warm languor spreads from his core throughout his body as he falls back against the bed. He slits his eyes open to look at John. All sign of worry has left John’s eyes, and he looks pleased. And extremely aroused. He reaches for a tissue to wipe off one hand, then runs the other through Sherlock’s hair and kisses him on the forehead. 

“Christ, you’re fantastic,” John murmurs, though Sherlock isn’t sure why. Surely he has done nothing John hasn’t done before himself, many times, or seen other men do in his heterosexual pornography collection. Sherlock has done nothing yet, for John. Sherlock wants to give him reason to call him fantastic.

Sherlock lies still for a moment longer before pushing himself up off the bed. After taking a moment to reach for a few tissues and do some cursory cleanup, he reaches for John. He pulls John’s jumper and shirt up and over his head, getting distracted by the need to snog John while his arms are still caught in a tangle of fabric above his head. John objects half-heartedly against Sherlock’s mouth, struggling in a futile attempt to free his arms, before giving in and kissing him more deeply. Sherlock eventually helps John pull his shirts all the way off, flinging them into the corner, lest John be tempted to put them back on. 

Sherlock is immediately drawn to John’s scar. He has caught tantalizing glimpses of it beneath John’s dressing gown but never been able to examine it up close. He pokes, prods, tastes the puckered skin.

“Sherlock,” John says, finally. “I promise you can look at my scar as much as you like. Any time.” Sherlock, hearing the implied _later_ , draws back, slightly abashed. John looks amused, but less aroused than a few minutes prior. This will not do. 

Sherlock leans in and kisses John’s mouth again, then sets to work unfastening his trousers. Soon, Sherlock has stripped John just as bare as his own body. While he is no longer desperate with the need for contact himself, he can’t help but take a moment to push John flat on the bed and stretch out on top of him, aligning their torsos and outstretched limbs (as much as possible; his arms and legs continue past the brief extent of John’s). He lies there, face buried in the crook of John’s shoulder, breathing in John and feeling John with the maximum possible surface area of his skin. He revels in it for a long moment, and John lets him. Then he rolls to one side, reaching for John’s cock.

He suspects John’s actions while performing the handjob were based on his experiences with the only penis he has previously handled. His technique is therefore presumably indicative of how he likes to masturbate. Sherlock watches his face as he mimics John’s earlier motions, and sure enough, John’s breath goes very ragged very fast. His erection bobs in Sherlock’s grip and starts leaking copiously.

Sherlock swipes his thumb across the head and lifts a sample of the clear fluid to his mouth. It tastes not quite the same as Sherlock’s own, but similar. John inhales sharply and his pupils spread even wider as he watches Sherlock’s tongue. Sherlock gets an idea. He slithers down between John’s legs until his mouth is near John’s cock, and --

John grabs Sherlock’s hair. “Wait,” he gasps. “Do you have condoms?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Don’t need them.”

“Yes, we do.”

“We’re both clean, John.”

“You don’t know that, and --”

“You and Mary both got tested near the time when you started dating seriously, correct?”

“Yes, but --”

“I have never had sex previously. I have used drugs intravenously” -- John winces -- “but Mycroft made me get tested regularly, up to and including a year after I stopped injecting myself.”

“But --” John protests again, more weakly.

“John. Please,” he says, letting his lips linger a breath away from the head of John’s cock, still slick with pre-come. That’s all it takes. John nods.

Sherlock reaches out his tongue and licks the tip. John’s fingers, still twined through Sherlock’s hair, tighten. Sherlock continues down the underside -- oh, a lovely spot of heightened sensitivity there, just below the glans -- to the very base. He swipes his tongue back upward, and then, wrapping his lips around his teeth, carefully slides the head into his mouth.

John groans, loudly. It’s very rewarding. And, unlike when John was touching him, Sherlock maintains full use of his mental faculties. As he slowly draws more of the shaft into his mouth, he takes copious mental notes on John’s responses. Tries to quantify the way John’s thigh muscles quiver, his hands tremble, his chest shudders up and down.

Sherlock is discontent with the volume of his oral cavity, he finds. He has never had cause to consider this previously, but as John’s glans comes to a rest against his soft palate, and he is obstructed from drawing any more into his mouth, he _hnks_ with displeasure. 

Adjusting his angle, he manages to get a little further. Still dissatisfying; about an inch of John’s approximately standard-sized cock remains beyond the reach of his lips (though his nose is close enough to John’s pubis to be tickled by hair -- coarser than that on John’s head; he will have to examine a sample later). He swallows, letting his throat muscles contract around the head and viciously suppressing his gag reflex, which takes a great deal of concentration. John groans beautifully. Sherlock tries repeating his action, but finds it more difficult to concentrate due to the increasing number of sparkles creeping in from the sides of his visual field, and the thudding, helicopter-like roar growing in his ears.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John’s hands tighten in his hair, pulling him back up and away until John’s cock pops out of his mouth entirely. “Sod it,” (Sherlock shivers at the very graphic image this phrase suddenly evokes) “you’ve got to _breathe_ , Sherlock.”

Sherlock pants, resting his head on the duvet and tasting metal. “You don’t have to do that,” John says affectionately. “There’s no need to swallow all of it.” But there is. Sherlock needs to take him in completely, to taste him all the way to his root, to feel John as deep inside as he can reach, and to hear the noises he makes. Sherlock needs.

“Here,” John says, when Sherlock recovers and raises his head once more. “Why don’t you use your hand?” Sherlock glares, and John laughs. “Okay, not _just_ your hand, if you don’t want. But look, the others I’ve been with -- they don’t take in the whole thing. In fact, none of them managed as much as you just did.” Sherlock preens a bit as John affectionately pats his curls. “But some of them have used their hand, down at the base --” John takes Sherlock’s right hand and guides it -- “and then, here, you can move your hand and mouth together, and you needn’t gag on it.”

Sherlock wants to gag on it -- wants to know how John would react to his throat uncontrollably convulsing around him. But he will try breathing, and utilize a mixed media approach to enveloping John’s cock, as John desires.

Though less satisfying theoretically, Sherlock finds, as he works both hand and mouth along John’s shaft, that John’s reactions are very satisfying. The guttural noises that slip through John’s lips, the way his fingers convulse in Sherlock’s hair, are very informative. As is the rhythm of his ragged breathing, and the droop of his eyelids and shape of his mouth as he watches Sherlock. (Of course, more samples will be needed to confirm Sherlock’s conclusions.) Sherlock falls into a cadence designed to maximize John’s response (and to incorporate periodic breathing), and John writhes and moans something that Sherlock thinks might be his name, and grabs his hair in a death grip. 

John starts to release his hair, but Sherlock uses his free hand to firmly hold John’s fist in place. As Sherlock bobs up and down, John continues to clutch his hair tightly -- though not to pull his head, not much. And then, suddenly, John is trying to pull Sherlock’s head back, away from him. “I’m gonna -- gonna --” and yes, that is exactly why Sherlock is fighting John’s insistent tugs at his hair. He tightens the grip of his fingers and lips just a bit more, and is rewarded by a deep-throated grunt, and John spilling over into his mouth. Sherlock savors the pulsing motions and the hot flood of salt-bitter slickness filling his mouth. John relaxes his fingers in Sherlock’s hair and just stares at him, with a dazed gaze and lips parted around his panting breaths.

“Come here,” John says softly, collapsing back against the bed. Sherlock reluctantly withdraws John’s softening cock from his mouth and slides up the bed to nestle against John’s neck (sampling the post-sex scents and degree of sweat, and noting that John does indeed flush deeply and extensively during climax), while John wraps an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders.

“You. Thank you,” John murmurs into his hair. Is one supposed to thank one’s partner for orgasm? Sherlock wonders if he has been remiss. “That was amazing.” Sherlock hums contented agreement.

They lie together, warm, relaxed, dozing intermittently, talking just a little in low tones from time to time, and Sherlock feels happy, truly happy, for the first time since his return. Since before that. Since he can remember. John improved his quality of life by orders of magnitude when he entered it. But the pleasure of knowing that John is his -- his to observe, his to act upon and to measure the responses of, his to absorb with all of his senses -- that pleasure is monumentally greater still. He wraps himself around John and sighs his contentment against John’s neck.

And then John pulls away. “I have to go,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to [wiggleofjudas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wiggleofjudas/) and [AxeMeAboutAxinomancy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy/pseuds/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy) for feedback and reassurance about this chapter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jealousy, misunderstandings, and a few things going right -- including a delightful murder.

Sherlock lies on his bed. It’s atypical, for him, to bother with his bed. But this whole evening has been full of the atypical. And now he feels a strong urge to lie here and be in his bed and make John miss this unusual occurrence -- precisely because John could be here, and enjoy it with him, if only he had stayed.

Sherlock is irritated at his throat; it feels blocked and uncomfortable.

Sherlock has no patience for his eyes, which are leaking.

He stares balefully at the depression in the duvet where John recently lay before leaving with a final kiss and a final “thank you”. Sherlock doesn’t want John’s thanks.

He wonders what is better about Mary than himself. He wonders if there is any way he could provide it, or if it’s some matter of anatomy or something similarly trivial yet intractable.

It would be easier if he could feel anger toward Mary, could dislike her, could believe she was terrible for John. If that were true, he could lie here and channel his emotions toward a productive end--deciding the most efficient way to chase Mary off, as he did so many of John’s earlier girlfriends. 

Unfortunately, Mary is easier to tolerate than most people. True, she chatters incessantly at times, whereas Sherlock prefers John’s tendency toward long stretches of companionable silence. She also makes references to television shows that Sherlock knows nothing about (though they are the kind of things he sometimes found himself watching, back when John lived with him). But she’s intelligent--an epidemiologist, educated in Edinburgh, graduate work in India; her dissertation on disease vectors in sheep, which Sherlock read immediately upon learning of her involvement with John, is excellent with the exception of the appalling abuse of semicolons--and she’s kind, even to Sherlock, and she shows her affection for John in every glance and touch. 

Mary’s worst quality, by far, is that she makes John be not here. Even after Sherlock has engaged in sexual activities with John. Sherlock thought that would be sufficient to make John stay. At least for tonight.

John might well be happier spending the night in Mary’s arms--Sherlock fears this is probably true. But Sherlock is the worse for every moment that John is not at 221B, day or night. He is slower to make deductions in John’s absence. (The skull is measurably less helpful as an audience.) He is also much less able to act in a timely manner upon his deductions when he has to wait for John to arrive from his job or his new flat. (The skull is nearly useless as backup.) And he is lonelier, without John. (The skull is so poor a substitute as to merely emphasize the problem.) Much lonelier, he is forced to admit, as his eyes continue their hateful generation of moisture. 

It could be worse, he is aware. There was time in which he thought he might not get John back at all.

“I’ve moved back to 221B,” he’d told John, shortly after returning. “You can move back, as well.”

John laughed without humor. “I don’t think so. You’re lucky I’m even talking to you.”

“I did it to save you, John.”

“Yes, you said that. But then you let me think you were dead for over two years. Didn’t ask for help, didn’t send a message. Nothing. Do you have any idea what that did to me?”

For Sherlock, who had been drinking John in after so long parched, it was easy to rattle off the physical consequences. John looked well, but the signs of past unhappiness lingered on his body. “Your limp returned. Your tremor worsened. You resumed therapy.”

“I.” John swallowed. “I thought about killing myself,” he said, quietly. “Spent a good long while thinking about it, actually.” Sherlock shuddered at the thought. The enormity of it left him, for once, without anything to say. 

“I pulled myself together, finally,” John continued. “Decided to get on with my life. And to stop thinking about you.” He paused, shook his head. “So no, I won’t be leaving Mary’s and my flat and moving back in with you. If you’re very lucky, and very well-behaved, I might keep talking to you.”

Sherlock has done his best, since then, to be very well-behaved. 

Tonight, for a while, he even thought it was working--and not just working to keep John here: working beyond anything he’d dared to imagine was possible. 

But now John is gone again. 

The best he can do, frustrating though it is, is to continue to follow all of John’s rules, to be ridiculously accommodating to anything that John indicates that he wants (directly or indirectly), and to hope that this will maximise the time John spends at Baker Street. 

_And how long will it last, even then?_ he wonders grimly. He thinks again about the ring that John has purchased. If John won’t stay the night even when he’s not a married man... well.

Sherlock’s thoughts are getting him nowhere useful. This is not a problem he can see a way to solve. He get out of bed and wraps a dressing gown around his bare body, unwilling to wash away the evidence on his skin. He spends the night working on cold cases. 

By the time his phone buzzes, mid-morning, Sherlock has sent Lestrade three texts with leads, and has almost managed to convince himself that he's functioning optimally without John. That John would currently be more of a distraction than a help. That he doesn't care whether John calls or comes by later.

He looks at his phone. John. _Join us for brunch? Noon at Forrester’s Cafe._

Sherlock bounds up off the couch. Forty-three minutes, one shower, three shirts discarded in favor of a fourth, some artful tousling of his curls, a quick frown of uncertainty as to why he is fussing with his shirt and hair, and a cab ride later, he walks into the restaurant.

He scans the tables and spots two light-haired individuals of diminutive stature seated close together on the patio, an open chair sitting across from them. John and Mary are laughing, holding hands. They appear well-rested and happy. Sherlock strides toward them, trying to put on a pleasant expression. He wonders if it is too soon to ask John to come back to Baker Street immediately following breakfast. Does he need to find a case to tempt John with? Does he need to invite Mary, as well? He is uncertain what exact combination of variables is most likely to cause John to spend more time with him.

As he approaches, John and Mary spot him and stand to greet him. Mary reaches out as if to hug Sherlock. When he leans back slightly, she drops her arms but beams at him warmly. “Hello, Sherlock,” she says. “I’m so glad you made it.” 

“Mary.” He lifts the corners of his mouth in a vague facsimile of a smile, unable to put any concentration toward it--or her--as all his attention is focused on John. 

John looks for a moment as though he’s going to try to reach out for Sherlock, too, but then pauses awkwardly and glances around the restaurant. “Hi,” John says finally, with a small smile. Why doesn’t John touch him? Is he feeling regret? Or is he all right with what they’ve done, so long as it’s a secret?

Either way, Mary wants to touch Sherlock and John does not, and everything is exactly the opposite of what Sherlock wants. He sags into his chair. When the waiter comes for their orders, though he isn’t on a case, he asks only for water. John rolls his eyes fondly in response, oblivious.

While they wait for their food, Mary asks questions about their most recent case, and John talks so glowingly about Sherlock that Sherlock flushes and finally smiles a little. Still, his eyes linger on John and Mary’s hands, folded together on top of the table for all the world to see.

John’s phone rings. It’s the clinic, and John excuses himself to take it.

Mary fiddles absently with the strand of small pearls adorning her neck. “I’m sorry I had bad timing when I called John yesterday,” she says, her mouth twisting wryly.

Sherlock arches an eyebrow. “Yes.”

Unexpectedly, Mary grins. “He could have said something, though,” she says. “He didn’t tell me till later just how much I was interrupting. The wanker.” Sherlock finds his face forming the smallest trace of an answering smile, hearing the affection for John so clear in her tone. 

Leaning in conspiratorially, she says, “I told him that next time he’s getting off with his boyfriend, he can wait to answer the phone.” 

Sherlock blinks, digesting this. _Boyfriend._ It has a permanence to it, or at least not the transience of a single sexual encounter, possibly regretted. And John did say that Mary was willing to share. 

Sherlock thinks about this version of sharing, about living on the scraps of affection that John will apparently throw his way when nobody is looking. It’s not what he wants. But if it’s that or nothing at all, he’ll choose whatever parts of John he can get. Perhaps he is greedy, wanting more than that; until last night, he didn’t even think this much was possible. 

He realizes Mary is waiting for an answer. “That might be best.”

She smiles. “You’re really good for him, you know. He’s so much happier, since you came back.” 

Sherlock has never been called good for anybody in his life. He blinks again. “I regret my prolonged absence,” he says, meaning it in many ways. “Thank you for taking care of him while I was gone.” He means that, though, as well.

“Of course,” she says. Then her eyes light up. “Oh, by the way, you might want to come by my lab tomorrow,” she tells him. “I’ve been meaning to invite you for a bit anyway--thought you might like a look around--but I just got in some ovine parasites that were extracted from rumen fluid, and they’re absolutely fascinating...” As they switch topics from John, Sherlock relaxes a little. This is a subject he can pursue with wholehearted fervor.

Even better, Mary offers him the chance to help dissect a sheep corpse. Sherlock is pleased by the offer, and he is also pleased with himself for thinking to ask if he can invite along Molly. He can never repay Molly for all she has done for him, but he thinks it might be a nice gesture to offer her the chance to examine a dead thing purely recreationally rather than for work.

John returns after their food arrives to find them still discussing parasitic larvae and sheep guts while Mary enthusiastically devours her breakfast sandwich. “You two are disgusting,” John says affectionately, not looking a bit put off as he takes a bite of his baked beans.

“That was Sarah, by the way,” he tells them. “Her daughter’s sick; Alix is going to cover for her today, but I offered to take a couple of her shifts later this week if she needs.”

“That’s nice of you,” Mary says.

“Well, it’s not purely selfless,” John admits. “It will come in handy to have her owe me if, say, we want to take a trip to Paris sometime soon.” Mary smiles in response.

Sherlock remembers John purchasing two tickets to Paris in tandem with his purchase of the engagement ring. John had to cancel the trip again shortly thereafter, due to complications in Mary’s work schedule--but apparently, John has not given up on the trip.

“Sherlock?” John says, brow furrowed. “You okay?” Sherlock stares at him. “You … you flinched.” 

Sherlock, unable to formulate a response that will not displease John, says nothing. Finally, John asks again, “Is something wrong?”

“Oh, John, how can you be so obtuse?” he snaps at last. He is aware that this does not fall within--or near--the bounds of John-pleasing behavior he has been aiming for. Yet, having started, he cannot help but continue. 

“Ah, Paris. A walk along the Seine, just the two of you, the city all aglow,” he sneers. “You would find such a romantic cliché the perfect opportunity to propose, wouldn’t you. And then the wedding to follow, where perhaps I can look forward to being your best man. And I can watch, as your friend”--He spits the word--“while Mary gets to be the one to kiss you in front of everyone, and I keep my hands to myself. 

“Thereafter,” he plunges onward, determined to enjoy his self-destruction to its fullest extent now that it has begun, “I can look forward to seeing you progressively less over time, as is statistically nearly inevitable for married people and their other associates. I can spend my days hoping that I might occasionally be able to persuade you to come assist with a case, and that maybe, if I’m very lucky, and if I sufficiently keep in check all my instinctive comments, you might stay afterward long enough to have sex before abandoning me. To top it off, I can watch you grow old with someone else while drifting ever further away from the life I’d hoped we’d build together.

“No, John, why would you imagine anything is wrong?” He fiercely swipes his cheeks with his sleeve and attempts to pretend it’s due to an itch. 

He waits for John to yell at him for ruining the surprise of the proposal, for being overly demanding, for being spiteful instead of grateful, even after John has done the impossible and slept with him. Instead: “Oh, God,” John and Mary breathe in perfect unison, both making identically distressed shapes with their eyebrows. And aren’t they the adorable couple. 

“Sherlock,” John swallows. And he’s wiping his eyes, too. “No. No, that’s not... you shouldn’t think... that’s not what’s going to happen.” Sherlock stares at him. What else should he think? He knows John had marriage in mind when booking the Paris tickets; he was practically shouting it from the rooftops with all the clues he left littering his web cache. 

John doesn’t say anything further to clarify, just stares at him for a long moment, looking lost, and it’s unbearable.

Sherlock’s phone rings, and he reaches for it, quick as he can. “Hello.” He listens for a few moments, then says, “Where? Yes. See you shortly.” 

As he hangs up, he says, “There’s been a murder.”

“Right,” sighs John. “I suppose it can’t wait?” 

“It’s a case, John,” Sherlock says forcefully. Whatever else happens, there is the work. There will always be the work. Sherlock will always put that first, and crime, at least, will never disappear from his life.

“We’ll have to talk about this later, then,” John says. “Just don’t... don’t assume things.”

It’s a frustrating command; Sherlock didn’t think he was assuming anything. He doesn’t know what errors John thinks he is making. Sherlock ignores the request, stands. “Coming?” he asks John.

John glances at Mary, clearly conflicted. Sherlock worries that he will not be willing to leave her behind. “Go,” says Mary to John, at the same time Sherlock says to her, “You should come, too.”

“Really?” says John to Mary, while Mary asks, “Are you sure?” of Sherlock.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. If she thinks he is in the habit of saying things just to be polite, she has sorely mischaracterized him. “Obviously. You pay, then follow in a second cab. Intersection of Pond and Cherry.” John nods, still looking dazed, and Sherlock turns on his heel and strides toward the street. 

* * *

Sherlock barely beats John and Mary to the crime scene, but he is glad for the chance to regain his composure. The work is what matters; he must not be distracted from the work. 

He uses the few minutes to examine the body--paying special attention to the head wound--and the study it occupies. John enters just as Sherlock happens to start rattling off observations to Lestrade. 

“The victim is a professor of cognitive neuroscience, based on the scientific journals on his shelves and the possible departments at University College London--note the school colors in his tie, and the fact that he obviously commutes to work by bike, as evidenced by the greater degree of wear on his right trouser cuff. The study is clean, but not because he is a neat man by nature--he de-cluttered to make way for the professional cleaning service, here early this morning.” Sherlock opens a desk drawer to demonstrate the disorderly piles of papers and office supplies shoved inside. 

“He’s had two visitors since the cleaners, judging from the mud in the entry hall -- one, the coauthor of this paper draft,” Sherlock gestures to the sole paper upon the desk, covered in red ink; “the other, a female, short, but wearing heels--see the imprints in the rug and the stride length--who had drinks with him despite the relatively early hour.” He gives a nod to the two unfinished cocktails on the table near the professor.

“Fantastic,” John says, as Mary emits a lengthy vowel filled with disbelieving admiration. Sherlock looks at neither of them, eyes fixed on Lestrade, but feels his cheeks heat slightly with pleasure. Good that John is here to hear this, so that Sherlock need not repeat anything later.

“You're right about his job,” Lestrade says. “This is Professor Bartholomew; he works at UCL. His colleague, Professor Thaddeus, found his body--he's in the kitchen.”

“Thaddeus? That's the other name on this paper,” Mary observes, looking at the draft.

“He's our murderer,” Anderson says, walking in from the direction of the kitchen. “The cleaners heard them fighting loudly--violently, one of them said--when they arrived this morning. He stormed out, but apparently returned after the cleaners left.”

Sherlock responds by listing thirteen reasons that Anderson is wrong about Thaddeus, and they're off to a satisfying start. Sherlock is on fire--feeling John’s eyes upon him every time he opens his mouth, he pours forth deductions ever faster; he does not want to miss any opportunity to remind John of his best qualities--and the case is wrapped up only a few hours later.

It's not all Sherlock's doing, he's forced to admit. It's Sherlock who first realises that the head wound--formed by an impact with the corner of the coffee table--was unlikely to be fatal, but it’s John who confirms it and finds the subtle clues of poison and resulting respiratory failure. When Sherlock deduces that the fight was about the order of authorship on the paper draft, which was in prep for submission to _Nature_ , it's Mary who points out that the two official authors might not have been the only people with an interest in the authorship dispute; it’s Mary who flips to the acknowledgements section, spots the four names listed there, and wonders aloud whether any of them felt they deserved greater recognition.

When questioning of the four postdocs thanked in the paper yields nothing, it's Sherlock who thinks to question their spouses and partners. But it's John who, while using the loo at Joanna Small's house, checks the medicine cabinet and finds her fiancée's belladonna eyedrops. 

Dr. Small’s fiancée, Elizabeth, breaks down crying when John brings the eyedrops out. She confesses to visiting Professor Bartholomew on the pretense of begging him to let Joanna take time off for their honeymoon, and to adding the poisonous liquid to his drink. She talks about what a horrid man he was, how he never gave Joanna any credit for her work, and how hard Joanna had worked helping to develop the early autism diagnostic method described in the paper. Through it all, Joanna sits silent, staring at Elizabeth in numb horror, and Sherlock thinks what strange things love makes people do.

“So, the whole thing was about whose name got to go at the top of a paper?” Donovan asks Lestrade, once the murderer has been taken to the station, followed by a dazed Dr. Small. The police have remained in the flat, gathering further evidence.

“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Lestrade answers.

“Do not underestimate the value of authorship in a prestigious journal,” Sherlock says. “To an academic hoping to someday gain tenure, there is no greater treasure.”

Donovan shrugs uncomprehendingly. “Well, at least it was sorted quickly,” she says. “Nice work,” she tells John. She has never apologized to Sherlock since his name was cleared and avoids talking directly to him even more than she used to.

“It’s nice to meet your girlfriend, by the way--glad you brought her,” Donovan continues with a smile that includes Mary. “She was telling me you’ve been living together over a year now. Congratulations.” John nods a quick, barely polite thanks. “I have to admit, I always thought you’d end up stuck with the freak, here,” she tilts her head at Sherlock. “Nice to see you’ve escaped.”

“Donovan,” Lestrade says warningly. Sherlock looks away. He tells himself he doesn't care what John says in response.

“You know,” John says, after a strained pause, “it is possible to love more than one person.” He walks over to Sherlock and touches his cheek. Sherlock looks at him uncertainly. John tugs his head down gently and kisses him. 

Sherlock, startled, holds perfectly still for a moment, processing. _Love._ John said. He was presumably including Sherlock in that statement, as he is now kissing Sherlock. In front of everyone. Or, trying to kiss him--belatedly, Sherlock relaxes and opens his mouth to John’s. _Love._

After a probably indecently long interlude, John pulls back, smiles at Sherlock for a long moment, and holds his gaze. Then he turns back toward the others. Mary is smiling. Lestrade looks quizzical. Donovan looks slightly nauseated. “You’re all freaks,” she observes. “I don’t even want to know.” She turns and walks out of the room.

“....Congratulations?” Lestrade hazards, looking back and forth between John and Sherlock on the one side of the room, and Mary on the other. 

“Yeah, thanks,” John says, still smiling. 

Lestrade, looking relieved but still confused, and says, “Right. I’m going to go... do something I have to do, then.” He follows Donovan. 

“What an appalling woman,” Mary comments, sounding impressed. John nods agreement, and takes Sherlock's hand in his own. It feels strange, but Sherlock doesn't object. 

“Shall we go?” John says, glancing back and forth between them. “I don't think they'll need us again.”

“I think you two should go,” Mary says. “Go talk. Spend the day together.” She gives John a quick kiss. “I’m meeting up with Erica today, anyway.” A friend only, Sherlock deduces from the lack of jealousy in John’s response. “I'll check in with you later.”

John nods, and Mary turns to Sherlock. “John has always said that you’re brilliant. But I never would have understood if I hadn't seen it myself. That was marvelous. Thanks for letting me watch you work.”

Sherlock flushes slightly. “I--yes. You were not inadequate at casework, yourself. In this instance.” John snorts and squeezes his hand.

“Thanks,” she says with a smile. Then she walks out the door, and John and Sherlock, hand in hand, follow to hail a cab back to Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loosely adapted the case from _The Sign of Four_ , for anyone who's interested in its origins. (Casefic really isn't my strength; constructive criticism is, as always, welcome!) 
> 
> Thanks to Lisa E., [AxeMeAboutAxinomancy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy/pseuds/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy), and [wiggleofjudas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wiggleofjudas/pseuds/wiggleofjudas) for the tremendously helpful feedback on this chapter, which turned out to be a tricky one.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A happy ending... or, really, a happy beginning.

Though they set out for 221B, they end up deciding to take a walk in Regent’s Park instead--John decides; Sherlock acquiesces. It’s a gorgeous June day, and there are lots of other people taking a stroll around the park. Despite the crowds, Sherlock feels as if they are alone as they walk past the flower beds and fountains. Unlike at the restaurant and the crime scene and in the cab, there’s nobody lingering nearby, nobody watching them. 

It should make it easy to talk. It doesn’t, it seems. Sherlock remains silent and watches John, who draws a quick breath several times as if to speak, then shakes his head and keeps walking.

“So, you might have misunderstood some things, but I’m the one who screwed up,” John says, finally. “Which makes this the point in the relationship where I would normally get someone flowers. If they were a… if they liked flowers. Do you like flowers?”

Sherlock considers. “I prefer bees.”

John laughs in surprise. “I didn’t know you liked bees.”

“There are a lot of things you don’t know about me,” Sherlock says. John knows him better than anyone, but there are many things John has never asked. 

John raises his eyebrows. “Apparently.”

John halts and kneels by the side of the path. He carefully plucks a pale pink anemone from a nearby plant, holding it still with one hand and breaking the stem with the other, so the large bumblebee on the blossom is undisturbed. He slowly stands and hands it to Sherlock.

Sherlock holds it, sheltering the bloom from the breeze with a cupped palm. “ _Bombus terrestris_ ,” he informs John, pointing to its white-tipped abdomen. “The hive may be as far as thirteen kilometers away, although it is probably somewhere in this park, below the ground.”

“Do you know this much about all insects?” John asks, amusement and admiration warring in his voice.

“Primarily bees. They’re fascinating creatures. I’ve thought about raising some, one day, when I retire.”

“Retire?” John says, incredulously.

“One day,” Sherlock confirms.

The bee flies off, and Sherlock contemplates the deserted flower for a moment before John, grinning, takes it and tucks it behind Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock rolls his eyes but leaves the flower where it is.

“Retirement and beekeeping,” John muses as they continue ambling along the path. “Did you imagine me joining you, then?”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock says. Then he softens his tone. “I’d hoped.”

“Mmm.” John does not sound unhappy at the thought. And yet, John lives with Mary now. Enjoys living with Mary. And has been intending to propose to Mary. Sherlock knows he’s not supposed to make assumptions, but these are self-evident facts. And they would seem to fly in the face of John being willing to retire with him. Sherlock can’t see where his reasoning would have gone astray. Still, he is less agitated than earlier after the soothing mental focus of the case and John’s wholly unexpected public declaration of love. So they walk a bit more, and Sherlock awaits further evidence of what is going on in John Watson’s head.

“Look, I owe you an apology,” John says at last. “Several, actually. But let me start with this one: I’m sorry I left you last night. I didn’t know you would feel abandoned, but I should have.” He sighs. “I had agreed--Mary and I, we negotiated. The first time that one of us goes out with someone new, we’re not supposed to stay over. We’re supposed to go home. So that the other one isn’t left staying up all night, feeling anxious and jealous and alone. We both promised.”

“Oh.” The first time. Maybe this isn’t going to be a general pattern. Assuming there is a next time. “It was a first for me, as well,” Sherlock can’t help but point out.

John winces. “I know. And I am sorry. I should have just called Mary. She would have understood.”

“Would she?” Sherlock is still trying to learn Mary. It has become important.

“Yes, absolutely. And anyway, you’re a bit of an exception to the normal rules.”

“Am I?” Sherlock hates that he has to ask so many questions. Hates that this domain is so far from his expertise.

John chuckles. “In almost every way. And you’re not somebody new, really. The, um, some of this may be new, but I’ve been involved with you for a long time.”

“Oh.” Sherlock wouldn’t have thought John would think about it that way. John wouldn’t have, before. Mary, or Sherlock’s time away, or both, have changed John. Sherlock knows this in theory, and yet he discovers it over and over, and each time is surprised. Sherlock likes the feeling of knowing John, and these moments of not knowing him have caught him off-balance repeatedly in the past weeks. But this change in John is an acceptable one.

“D’you mind if we get some dinner?” This change of topic, on the other hand does not surprise Sherlock. Food is never a non sequitur, for John. And Sherlock has noted that half-consumed meals, interrupted by cases, often fail to satisfy John for a full day. It is at times inconvenient, but a quirk Sherlock is willing to endure.

They head to the Boathouse Cafe, where John acquires some flatbread pizza. It smells surprisingly good, and, not being on a case, Sherlock ends up eating approximately half. They wander along the bank as they eat, escaping the large throng drawn to the food source. 

Licking his fingers, Sherlock decides to ask a practical question. “How did you stop thinking about me?”

John looks at him, startled. “What? When?”

“When I was gone. You said you decided to move on with your life. To stop thinking about me.”

“Ah.” John shrugs. “I never did. I wished I could, but it doesn’t really work that way.”

Sherlock’s face falls. “Does that make you sad?” John asks, confused.

“I hoped I could learn how to modulate the extent to which I think about you,” Sherlock admits. “It’s distracting.”

John laughs far louder than Sherlock thinks the remark warrants. “That’s sweet, I think. I wish I could help, but that’s what it’s like, being in l--caring about someone.” He pauses. “Did you ever stop thinking of me, while you were gone? I suppose you must have; you were busy risking your life--”

“No.” Sherlock sighs. “No. I thought of you constantly. I measured the size of Moriarty’s web in days remaining until I could see you again.”

John swallows. “Oh. I thought it was easier for you. I didn’t think you needed me, the same way I needed you.”

“I need you.”

John nods. “Yeah, I get that, now.” He sits down near the edge of the park’s small lake--more accurately a pond--and watches an egret watch the water. 

“Sherlock,” John says as Sherlock folds himself up and perches next to him on the bank, close but not quite touching, “I wasn’t planning to ask Mary to marry me, in Paris. I mean, I was, initially, but then I wasn’t.” Sherlock frowns, trying to follow this. “But I should have thought how it would look, to you, bringing up Paris again. Of course you figured out what I’d been planning.” 

“What changed?” Sherlock asks. 

John laughs disbelievingly. “You did. Or--we did.”

Sherlock’s brow furrows. “You changed your plans to propose because of me?”

John smiles a little sadly. He reaches out and places his hand over Sherlock’s. “Yeah. Maybe you’re not aware--though you should be--but you’re one of the two most important people in my life. And this, what we’re doing? Whatever it is, it’s a big deal to me.”

“Oh.” Should he have known that? Sherlock thinks perhaps he should. But all of this is foreign, territory he had dismissed as unworthy of exploration for most of his life. He’s going to have to rely on John to explain things, much though it galls him. 

John takes his hand and holds it in his own lap. John studies their clasped hands, tracing them absently with the fingers of his other hand as he talks. “If you don’t know that already, though, I should tell you. Tell you what this has meant to me.” He watches the egret, still fishing nearby, as he talks.

“When I left last night, I don’t know if you know this, but I was deliriously happy,” John continues. Sherlock didn’t. “The case was marvelous--it finally felt like old times--and then the kiss, and the... the everything.” John blushes. Sherlock finds it odd that a man with so much interest in sex can have such trouble talking about it. He also finds it interesting that John won’t look at him. It’s as though he’s telling the egret everything, the way he looks steadfastly away, and Sherlock just happens to be overhearing. 

“It was more than I’d ever hoped for, with you.” John swallows. “I just... never thought you would be interested. But I’m so glad you were. Are.” He squeezes Sherlock’s hand. “And then the hours lying in bed with you... it felt like such a luxury. A small miracle--I never expected you to stay in bed so long, actually,” he teases, stealing a quick glance at Sherlock. 

Sherlock blinks. He supposes they did spend a lengthy interval in his bed, but the subjective experience of it was much briefer. Sherlock has experience with various substances that have caused temporal dilation; John Watson is the first to have the opposite effect. He starts planning future evenings involving John, a timer, and a lab book.

“Anyway,” John continues. “I went home to Mary because I promised I would, and I told her all about it--well, not _all_ about it,” he blushes again, “but enough. And she was happy. And I was just over the moon. Because I’d known for a long time that I wanted her in my life, permanently. But I hadn’t really believed I could have everything I wanted.” 

He pauses, sighs, squeezes Sherlock’s hand tightly. “Before you came back,” John says, voice low, “I thought I could have Mary, but not you. And that it was the best I could do, the happiest I could possibly be. In a world without you.” He smiles sadly. “She does make me very happy, you know. But it wasn’t a world I wanted to live in, really. She just made it bearable. I was still a bit … hollow, I guess, is a word for it.”

Sherlock makes a small pained noise, thinking about it. John squeezes his hand again, and Sherlock thinks that it isn’t really fair, for John to be comforting him over the pain that Sherlock caused John. But he needs it, and he clings to John’s hand. And he thinks that, sometime in the near future, he will need to do some more thorough apologising of his own.

“And then you came back.” John says, voice cracking on the final word. “And I was so happy--and angry, so angry--but I worried that it meant I’d lose Mary. She’d said she was happy to share, but I just, I hadn’t really believed her, I guess. I still don’t know how I’ll ever share her, honestly. And every other woman I’ve dated since meeting you has broken up with me because of you, so I figured she might change her mind. Once I started haring off all the time on cases again, and all.

“Until last night--until I saw her happy for us--I didn’t really think I could have everything. And then I saw, and I thought, yes. I don’t have to choose. I can actually have everything.” He exhales. “So I was happy. And this morning, when she started talking about her schedule for the next few months, I said we should try to go to Paris again. Thinking, just, you know, that it would be nice. That it would be a treat to get away from work for a bit, and just revel in the actual being happy together. 

“But I didn’t mean it as an engagement trip--not this time. I figured all that would wait until things settle, until we figure out what all this should look like. Mary’s never cared much about marriage, one way or the other, anyway; it’s me that’s a bit hung up on ceremony. And I can wait. I also thought--Mary and I thought maybe you’d want to come, actually. I hear they have a good crime museum.” He smiles at Sherlock.

“Oh,” is all Sherlock can say. A change in John’s grand proposal plan, a change in the number of people potentially involved in his vacation--so many changes happening in John’s head. So much that Sherlock has missed. He feels surprisingly little frustration over his incorrect deductions, though; mostly, he feels a pool of pleasant warmth spreading inside him at the thought that John looked into crime-related attractions in Paris with him in mind.

“I’m getting way ahead of myself, though,” John admits. “Since yesterday, all I’ve been thinking about is what would make me happy, and the fact that I could finally see a way where I might get everything I wanted. But that’s not enough.”

He turns and looks Sherlock in the eye, and Sherlock can see that it’s difficult for him. “I want to build a life with you both. But what do you want? Can you be happy, sharing?”

Sherlock is unprepared to be asked what he wants. He frowns.

He thinks about it. Thinks about Mary. She is a good ally in caring for John, but she is also more than that. He thinks, surprisingly, that they could be friends. He is looking forward to dissecting sheep with her, even if John decides not to join them. And he would value her input on future cases. (Some future cases; he would also like to work with John alone sometimes.) He realizes he does not want to chase her out of John’s life, or his own. That is not an answer to John’s question, though. 

“Would you rather I were just with you?” John asks, voice trembling a little. “I didn’t ask... I just assumed... I mean, you rarely sleep, you don’t notice whether I’m around for days, sometimes... so I didn’t imagine that you’d want... something... conventional...” He trails off, uncertain. “Please. Tell me--I need to know.”

Sherlock tries. “No, you’re right. I don’t want conventional. I want all of you, John. I want to possess you completely. At every moment. Every second. I want to know that every drop of your attention, your admiration, is mine.” 

John looks surprised, then crestfallen, torn. “Oh, Sherlock--”

Sherlock cuts him off. “But it wouldn’t be that way, John. Even if you left Mary, even if you moved back to 221B, I wouldn’t actually have that. I’ve never had that. Like before, you would have other interests. And like before, I would take you for granted. I would ignore you for days. I would get distracted, by the work, by my experiments. Even if I were speaking to you, it wouldn’t really matter if you were there, most of the time. And if you asked me to come to bed, most nights I would snap at you. 

“I want you all the time--but only on reserve for those moments when I choose to pay attention to you.”

Sherlock feels as though he has turned himself inside out and bared the darkest, most unexposed portions of himself. He feels raw. Before John can speak, he says, softly, “I do recognize that that is not tenable. Nor reasonable. And I do not think it would make either of us happy, in the long run.” It could make Sherlock happy. But only if John were to acquiesce to waiting patiently by his side, and to never have other friends or lovers. That, Sherlock recognizes, is not something John--or anyone, perhaps--would do. Nor is it something he can ask of him.

“If I am to share you with the world at all,” he continues, “then I do not mind sharing you with Mary. I think I can be happy, even. And I was happier last night than I can recall being, before.”

John sighs and closes his eyes, shoulders sagging a little with relief. Then he opens them again, leans in, and kisses Sherlock, slowly, gently. “I’m so glad,” he says. “I was, too. We’ll figure out how to make this work for all of us, somehow.”

John smiles apologetically. “Sorry you thought I didn’t want to kiss you in front of people, earlier, by the way. That wasn’t it. Not at all. It’s just that this is just all new, really new. I’m still figuring out how to do this. How to be with you. And what you might want, in front of other people, too.” 

Sherlock’s lip quirks at the thought that John has learning to do here--compared to him, John has an advanced degree in relationships-- but he nods.

“Just so you know,” John says, “I am bound to bollix things up again.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock says, and John snorts. 

“It might help,” John continues, “if you would tell me when you’re upset. And tell me what you want. Before you get to the point of being so unhappy.” He furrows his brow at Sherlock. “You never used to have a problem telling me those things. What changed?” 

John is being dense. “You said you’d leave,” Sherlock reminds him.

“I what?” John jerks in startlement and sits back up, facing him.

“‘If you’re very lucky, and very well-behaved, I might keep talking to you,’” Sherlock recites.

“I--no! Sherlock. I didn’t mean--no. You’d just shown up at my door at 3 a.m., telling me to move back in with you, when I’d only known for a day that you were even alive. I was just angry. Very, very angry.”

Sherlock has never known John to place a high value on uninterrupted sleep, or to say things he doesn’t mean. These changes could be Mary’s influence. But John could also be telling the truth that he was unusually emotionally compromised and responded erratically.

“You’ve done similar, you know,” John points out. “Telling me you don’t have friends.”

Sherlock reflects on this. “I clarified.” 

John laughs. “Yes, eventually. I didn’t, and I’m sorry. You’re so observant that sometimes I expect you to be an expert at figuring everything out.”

Sherlock smiles a little at that. “Give me time, John. You’re my first friend as well as my first lover. It will take me a little while to gather data and to calibrate your responses.” 

This makes John smile, but also look terribly sad. “Well, let me clarify, too, then. There are some things you’re not allowed to do, or I’ll leave you. Mostly, you’re not allowed to fake your own death--at least without warning me. But you are allowed to ask for things. And to tell me what you’re thinking. And to be an annoying git. In fact, it’s rather expected. If you do that, I promise I won’t leave you.”

Something that has been wound tight inside of Sherlock since the day he first returned to John, wound so tightly that he’s forgotten it could be any other way, finally loosens a little. “All right,” he agrees. 

John grins. “Right. So how many times did you refrain from telling me and Mary that we were being idiots back at the crime scene, then?” he asks.

“Only five,” Sherlock says. “You both acquitted yourselves rather well, actually. For ordinary people.” 

“Thanks,” John laughs. “You arse.” John leans in and kisses him again. It starts gentle, but rapidly grows more intense, a pulse-quickening promise of things to come. His palm wraps tightly round the back of Sherlock’s neck, the pressure of it oddly exciting. Sherlock crowds closer to John, pressing his hardening length against John’s thigh. John’s breath hitches, and he pulls back.

“Um. Perhaps we should be getting back to the flat.”

“Probably.” Sherlock agrees, but reaches for John’s hand. He kisses John’s fingertips, each in turn, and John smiles at him. Then he licks the tip of John’s index finger and draws it into his mouth.

“Hey, what, uhn,” John says, demonstrating significantly less coherence than his average utterance. His breathing goes ragged as Sherlock sucks insistently, tries to taste John’s fingerprint. Then Sherlock sucks him in deeper, deeper, until John’s finger is pressed into his mouth as far as it can go, curling along his tongue and down into the depths of his throat. Sherlock watches John’s face as Sherlock’s throat closes around his finger, as his tongue makes all sorts of obscene promises.

John’s face is capable of turning the most delightful hues, pinks and reds and something so deep as to approach purple. Sherlock is struck by the urge to say a number of things to John, ranging from relatively innocent to unspeakably filthy, and to film and take notes on all of his responses. But just at the moment, his mouth is otherwise occupied.

“I, unk, hrm, _guh,_ ” John chokes out, before withdrawing his finger from Sherlock’s mouth and staring at him shakily. 

Sherlock smiles and says, insincerely, “Sorry.” Not sorry. Not at all.

“Home. Now,” John says firmly. 

As soon as John feels he can walk without embarrassing himself, they head back to 221B. They’re not done talking, Sherlock suspects, nor past all the awkwardness, but things are on the mend. 

And if there turns out, later (after Sherlock’s mouth has fulfilled a few promises), to be some momentary awkwardness involved with renegotiating spatial relationships on the sofa during movies now that the degree of physical intimacy in their relationship has altered, well, there are ample moments of happiness to compensate. 

There is the moment when Sherlock tests out John’s new edict that he should ask for things, and looks up from where his head is cradled in John’s lap to ask, “Stay here tonight.” And John says yes. 

There is the juncture shortly thereafter, when Sherlock, emboldened by his initial success, follows up with another request: “Move in with me.” (John had said no, but John had been angry at the time; it’s worth running another trial.) And, though John stiffens at first, upon Sherlock’s hastily added clarification, “Mary, too,” he smiles fondly at Sherlock. 

“We’ll have to discuss that with Mary, I should think,” John says, squeezing his shoulder. Which is enough for now, Sherlock finds.

Finally, there is the time when John is wrapped around him on the sofa, the television droning on unheeded. He murmurs into Sherlock’s hair as they drift off to sleep, “I was thinking of cutting back on my hours at the clinic, a bit. If you’d want me around more. For cases… and things.” And Sherlock smiles against John’s chest, thinking of all the things he’d like him around for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Lisa E., [AxeMeAboutAxinomancy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy/pseuds/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy), and [wiggleofjudas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wiggleofjudas/pseuds/wiggleofjudas) for the feedback!
> 
> I am done with this particular story, but there may be more in the series. Thanks to all of you who read and commented on this one!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading (and for leaving kudos or comments, if you're so inspired)! If you enjoyed this, there's also a [sequel](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1087620). And here are some [other works you might like](http://destinationtoast.tumblr.com/fic#toc).


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